Waiting to glimpse Dad as he transitions from swimming to biking (his bike is among the 2,500 in the photo)

Son-in-law Chris has done more than one Ironman, but this weekend was the first I’d ever seen. Correction: first I’d ever EXPERIENCED. If I’ve learned anything these days in Louisville, it’s that there are no Bystanders for an Ironman. Teresa’s pedometer read 13.65 miles at the end of the day, and she was not in the race! If I’d worn a pedometer, it would have been less than half that: she made several runs across the bike and running courses to get views of Chris, while I gallantly stayed with the children. In the shade. With beverages and food.

Terms like splits and staging ,aero (helmet/bars), transition, and nourishment – all mean something different to these athletes than they do to me. All are part of the vocabulary employed and enjoyed by this Fraternity-Sorority, this Band of Brothers-Sisters.
These rare athletes, most of them with amateur – not professional – status, go on training runs at 4, so they can be behind their desks by 8, or for training swims at 5, so they can get kids off to school by 8. What’s more, they don’t do it for ten weeks – the length my annual re-dedication to the gym – but for ten months.

IRONMAN DAD after 140.6 MILES

Reason #2 for Louisville!
It involves the man whose typewriter I saw (and touched!) this weekend while I was in Louisville.
I visited Bellarmine University’s Merton Center. I’ll return to Louisville after Thanksgiving for a stay at Thomas Merton’s abbey – Gethsemani.

The beaches are there for the taking (as well as the sitting-and-reading).

Mac's Seafood Place, the Beach at Wellfleet

By the time the ritual coffee at Joe’s was over on Wednesday, we were in the midst of a sort of Hong Kong (Lamma Island)“spit-rain” without the heat. Consequently, instead of doing another day at the beach, we headed into Wellfleet, well aware that we were a season away from the Wellfleet Oysterfest, but knowing we would find something.

One road lead to the ocean, so we took it, did a quick-read in Frommer’s, and found Mac’s, where we lunched on the picnic tables by the water, near some 50-something French cyclists. No oysters, but scallops – breaded lightly, fried even more lightly, and lobster rolls with a dash – no more – of mayo.

Still hunting for the oysters, we took yet another turn, found another place, which was food for the eyes, if not the body:

Looking for a space to turn around, we had driven down and around a road on Main Street for about a hundred feet; realizing “The Salty Duck”was actually a pottery shop, we got out to look around. Owner and potter Katherine Stillman’s work is said to have “a free and easy way” about it, and so it does, but even freer and easier is her honor system. If she is not there – and she wasn’t this morning when we visited – you simply write down what you liked/took, then leave the money or fill out a credit card slip.

We left The Salty Duck, poked around a few stores on Main and Commercial, were deciding between the ice cream shop and a fudge shop, when we saw Winslow’s Tavern; upstairs in the Billingsgate Bar, we played Trivia (don’t ask) and ate, yes! Bivalve Molluscs.